


Qualifications

by fusrodie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: DLC Spoilers, Disabled Character, F/M, Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5028715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusrodie/pseuds/fusrodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan and Cassandra spend some quality time together, but things don't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Qualifications

The forest reminds him of happier times. But perhaps _happier_ was not the word he was looking for, because _happier_ would imply he now lived in misery, and nothing could be farther from the truth. Easier times, perhaps, when he was younger and fed off of adventure, when the bow felt like an extension of his arm. When he would spend months by himself, hunting in the woods, away from the world and his family, answering letters months after they had reached him.

Things are different now, complicated, he had taken on responsibilities, a title. No longer the careless Trevelyan boy, but a man in his late thirties with too much riding on his shoulders. A burden so heavy Cassandra had suggested a getaway, a few days somewhere secluded, just the two of them. After all, they had time, did they not? The Inquisition had been disbanded, Leliana ruled as the new Divine, and though their work would never be done – rebuilding the Seekers, helping those in need -, the world would not end if they removed themselves from it for a few days. Not after the Breach, and Corypheus, and it all seeming to cause more troubles than it solved. It had endured. They had endured.

She had suggested it, her voice but a whisper, lips so close to his ear it had sent shivers down his spine, fingers snaking on his sides until her palms lay against his chest and her breasts pressed against his back. She had suggested it, and he had been a fool to say yes, and invite her to the cabin he had built so long ago, his hiding place when the parties and the meetings and the pressure of being a Trevelyan threatened to overwhelm him. He did not think a trip into the woods would excite her so, but while they planned and packed, she was beside herself with joy. He had heard her murmuring while she folded clothes and tucked supposed-to-be-secret books in inconspicuous places, _this is so romantic_ , and those simple words had ruined his confidence. She wanted it to be perfect, a magical week: the two of them, a cabin by the lake, birds chirping and flowers in bloom, just like the novels she read. And by the Maker, he would make it perfect, the ideal, like he had promised almost three years ago.

He had written letters until his hand cramped, one for his family, one for Scout Harding, one for Josephine, and then a few more to hide the first ones. Yet no matter how much he had prepared, how many times he had reviewed his plans, his stomach twisted and turned as they made their way deeper into the forest. For the first time in his life, Rowan didn’t know what to do with his hands. _Hand,_ he remembers, fidgets slightly, thumbs the buttons on his gambeson, flexes his fingers, goes as far as reaching for the quiver on his back – and forcing himself to keep his hand glued to his side when he finds nothing. There is no bow, no armor; there are no arrows and no enemies, though he can feel his heart beating hard and fast, the ringing in his ears so loud he had to reassure himself they were not heading into battle. No, battle was easier: he straightened his back, pulled the bowstring, let the arrow fly.

But not anymore, the thought occurs to him, the taste in his mouth a bitter one, the fluttering in his chest gone. There is no bow, and there would never be again. It is difficult to adjust, to accept, and the first few weeks had hurt him immensely.  When he was but a teenager with a bit of scruff on his jaw, the youngest of four children, treated like a speckle of dust gathering on the shelves, his skill was what had set him apart. He had trained, day after day, under his eldest brother’s tutelage, even when the strain brought tears to his eyes, even when the second child mocked him and the third ignored him. The mark was gone, and with it a bigger part of himself, a piece of who he was, his identity, his pride. Dagna had told him, more than once, this was an opportunity, this could help so many, because she knew just the way to help, and he would be shooting again in no time. Sera had baked him a dozen of his favorite cookies, and together they were perched on the roof one last time before life would separate them for Maker knows how long, and try as she might to crack a few jokes, tell him stories of ruined nobles, her smiles were sad. Because Sera understood. “You trust my Widdle,” she’d said, promising they would soon hit the streets and cause some trouble, the Jenny and her friend. Cole had pointed out that even without the mark, even after retiring his weapon, he was not _broken_. Still Inquisitor, still an inspiration, still able to do so much for people who had lost and suffered, much like he had.

“Rowan?” he heard Cassandra’s voice somewhere beside him, a firm hand holding his elbow as her pace slowed to a halt. Concern was written all over her features and there it was again, the fluttering, the lightheadedness, the sketch of a smile forming on his lips. He wished this moment would last forever, wished he could stay frozen in time to hold her gaze, her eyes telling him just how much she cared, how much she loved him. But it had always felt like this – whenever he was around her, time became such a confusing concept, sometimes too fast, and then all too slow, and he could never decide if that was good or bad. No matter how many times he did it, staring at his love like this, so close all it would take to touch her would be the stretch of an arm, the sight of Cassandra Pentaghast still gave him funny feelings. “Stop staring at me like a lovesick fool,” she snarled, more amused than angry, nudging his shoulder.

“I _am_ a lovesick fool,” he murmured, fingers tracing her jaw, thumb brushing against her cheek. “And you love me for it.”

She blushes, tiptoes to kiss him on his lips. But Cassandra Pentaghast is a Seeker of Truth, and hadn’t given up on her questioning even after his confession and loving smile; even after her subsequent melting as he pulled her in for another kiss, and then another, fingertips running through her hair, until she was flush against him, and only then was her question forgotten. _For now_ , he can almost hear her say. A disgruntled noise escapes her lips when she starts walking again, her disapproval  likely regarding her own lack of restraint and his persuasive ways.

For the remainder of the journey she remained quiet, taking in the scenery, letting out a sigh every now and again, the two of them pretending, at least for now, that he was not suffering and she hadn’t noticed. When he can quiet his inner quarreling, he needn’t bother with the trees and the grass and the flowers, the birds or the blue sky. She shines brighter, she is much sweeter, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. And he had told her so, after their first night together, when he felt so blissful it was easy to ignore everything else. He had hoped for a smile, a blush, a tentative touch, and the punch caught him by surprise, a not-entirely-playful shove as she warned him, only this once, that he should never say such things. She was no child, no swooning princess. Empty compliments were not the way into her heart. Cassandra showed no sign of insecurity then, not when she let him undress her, nor when he explored and grabbed like he'd wanted to remember every inch of her body, much less when she rolled her hips and arched her back as she bared herself to him. It made no sense why she would think his words untrue, but perhaps it was a simple matter - words were not enough.

He had never stopped it, however, no matter how many angry stares she directed at him, and had even tried his hand at writing poetry, on occasion. Varric had offered him lessons, and he had accepted them earnestly, their sessions consisting of eavesdropping on people’s conversations to find inspiration for his writings, and later on discussing how and when the ideas could be used. Imagining Commander Cullen as the main character of a romance novel was his favorite part, but at the time the two had yet to find the heroine who would come to his rescue. Rowan’s life as a poet had began innocently enough, almost childish writings comparing his love to flowers and sunny skies. Things had started to change after the first time she had admitted enjoying them, and soon there were no more rainbows; moonlit nights, wine, detailed descriptions of where and how he would touch her, what he would whisper in her ear as they made love. She had said those were tasteless, filthy, as she stripped, coat, shirt, breastband, pants, smalls; dared him to try and take her like he had written he would as she undressed _him_ , quick fingers undoing the laces on his breeches, pushing his shirt by the hem until it was up and over, lying on the bedroom floor.

He had lost count of how many times _she_ had made him blush. Cassandra wasn’t like him, witty remarks and an extensive list of innuendoes – she was determination, action, fierce kisses in the middle of a battlefield. Rowan had been surprised to discover her romantic side: the word had always reminded him of blushing maidens, duels in the name of honor, soft touches during midnight rendezvous. But there was nothing soft about Cassandra.  Not her personality, nor her love, yet it did not mean harsh, reckless, or less sincere. Sweet nothings and silky bed sheets, expensive jewelry and influence, none of it mattered, and she had given it up in exchange for trees and grass, a wooden cabin tucked into the mountainside, had given it all up for a few days with her grumpy lover.

The plan he had devised involved turning the few days into a lifetime, and he had postponed it for almost two years. His proposal was to be simple, some alone time after Corypheus had been defeated, but there was so much to be done, her work with Leliana kept her busy, and he would never presume to take her away from her duties. Ever since he had taken the time to speak to Josephine about a possible ceremony, dropped subtle hints to his mother when he had the opportunity to visit, and spoke to Dagna about forging matching wedding bands. The process of learning how to shape the metal took him months to get right, and a few more were put into making sure they were perfect. It boggled the mind how much time he had spent to make such a simple piece, and it amazed him further that Dagna had dedicated much of her life to it. The rings was golden, little hearts carved into it like the ones in her armor.

Rowan had carried it on his person at all times since then, hoping to find the perfect moment. When she spoke to him at Halamshiral, saying Varric had mentioned a proposal and she had assumed he would ask for her hand, he felt his resolve falter. For the first time in many years he had been willing to deal with the rumors, shatter appearances, flip off his parents, the Chantry, the Maker if need be, but she had hesitated, called it drastic. He’d felt, even as he made light of the situation by joking, a part of his heart break. There was no reason for bitterness, he told himself: she had said _one day_ , and he was willing to wait.

The place was just as he remembered it, stairs, porch, the uneven plank on the right side he’d never had the patience to fix. Nothing remained of his garden, the pretty purple and pink flowers long gone. It seemed like it was just yesterday when he was a young, fresh faced lad, hunting as his only means of survival, sometimes having a guest to warm his bed at night. But it also seemed like yesterday when he had lost his sister, a shrew of a woman, an avid diplomat and important character in the play that was his family’s schemes. It felt like it was yesterday he left the woods to never return, vicious Orlesians instead of friendly Dalish. Maintaining the shack was his only request at the time, though he never expected Bann Trevelyan to honor it.

Rowan had expected a pristine place, empty, clean but lifeless, the smell of polished wood and sunburned fabric, like he had left it so long ago. Had an apology prepared, as well: he had meant to take better care of the place, had meant it to be their special spot, somewhere they could always come back to, but he hadn’t found it within him to waste what little time they had together. Cassandra had all but forgotten about his presence as she stepped forward, hand reaching for the pendant she had worn all this time. She had asked to be the first to enter and he had agreed, the rusty key hanging from the silver cord he had once worn – a hunter’s pockets were not meant for keys, and he had never been an organized one, either. He braces for a sound of disappointment, but it is a gasp of surprise he hears. Instead of decay he find colors, embroidered pillows, neatly stacked books on the coffee table. It is as he had imagined it, as he had written it, and he finds Josephine’s letter tucked behind the key holder, like she’d said it would be.

Cassandra disappears for the better part of ten minutes, investigating the minuscule house with much more enthusiasm than necessary. Her bags are gone by the time she comes back, a big smile on her face as she pushes a window open and peeks outside.

Their afternoon is quiet, clothes are put away, weapons placed where they’ll be close, should any danger arise, but not an obstacle. They hold hands as he guides her through the woods, tells stories of his younger years, stories of great hunts and less glamorous ones, too: like the time children had stolen his clothes as he bathed in the lake, giggling as they ran, and though the walk back should have been quiet enough, he had stumbled upon an old lady and her two daughters, on their way to wash their own garments. One of them had blushed, but he could have sworn the old lady had _grinned_ , and it took all of his courage and lack of shame to nod, smile, and keep walking, as if he had been wearing expensive finery. She shares one, as well: she would not call it a dream, instead labeling it a _wish_ , but this, the forest, the cobblestone path, the quiet, the one she called lover holding her hand – this is something she had envisioned for so long, and it spoke volumes he had gone out of his way to make it true.

She lights the fire as he chops vegetables and slices meat for dinner, the cold weather calling for a hearty stew. Cassandra helps with the cooking in any way she can, though she is the first to admit her culinary skills would always be lacking. She boils the water, sets the table, tastes the food in spoonfuls when he asks her to, but is mostly content with watching.

He knows how he must look: silly, for one, brows furrowing as he concentrates, flush on his cheeks for being close to the fire. Yet she looks at him as if he is the hero of Varric’s latest book, as if he’s not wearing a woolen coat, as if his hair is not a mess and his hands dirty. The way she looks at him, right hand cupping her chin as the other lay against the counter, fingertips tracing her glass of wine – he notices as her eyes wander, feels as if she is undressing him in her mind. She knows everything there is to know, every scar, every birthmark, every spot that made him shiver; and he knows every inch of her body, every curve, every muscle, but no matter how many times he touches, kisses, suckles, it is never enough.

Dinner is anything but quiet – he tells bawdy jokes, she lets go for once, they talk about the past, but little about the future, though there is much he wants to ask. The bottle is gone before the hour is, the wine and the fire contributing as clothes are peeled and thrown away and the conversation drags on. They are bare before they know it, the soft pelt beneath their bodies comfortable enough for their intended purposes. They never reach the bed that night, busy exploring and nibbling, the cabin silent aside from the cackling fire, surprised sighs and muffled grunts.

Cassandra is draped across him when he wakes up, left leg slung across his body, thigh pressing against his, one hand resting on his chest as the other tangles in his hair. She always looked beautiful under the morning light, her tanned skin looking as warm as it felt to the touch. Watching as she slumbered had become a habit he couldn’t get rid of; he loved to see how her hair curled at the tips after a good night’s rest, the way she murmured and brought him closer as she dreamed. Maker, the woman _frowned_ even in her sleep. Times like these were when he felt the luckiest, when his faith was renewed – what could have brought them together like this, if not the Maker? He only hoped his graces would extended just a bit further, wished for some sort of divine intervention when he finally proposed. But it was not acceptance he sought, not a sign from god that would pressure her into saying yes. He wished the world to give them a chance, wished he would continue being the man she loved, wished his strength would not falter in the face of adversity, wished he could do as much to make her happy as he dreamed.

“Stop staring,” she growls, eyelids still shut, presses a kiss against his collarbone. He chuckles, says he will, but they both know it’s a promise he can’t keep.

They have breakfast – tea and pastries Josephine had insisted they packed – sitting side by side on the couch, nothing but a blanket sprawled across their backs. Cassandra enjoys sweets far more than she lets on, licking her fingers clean before snacking on yet another tiny cake. The ambassador had been kind enough to get him a copy of the recipe, but none of his attempts had yielded good results. For the rest of the morning he giggles whenever she walks to and fro with nothing on, not a care in the world, though she complains the forest is drafty before seeking shelter under the covers again.

His mood plummets at some point, and try as she might to pry and have him air his thoughts, Rowan keeps his lips sealed. For the remainder of the day, his smiles are sad and his words few, and not a single one is to refuse her. The place brings him memories, but most of all, it brings him hope. There is no sadness in his eyes as he stares out into the forest, no brooding as he quietly plans, rearranges the furniture, paints the walls and hums lullabies. Things he will not say until the time has come, schemes that will not come to fruition until they are older, and the silly golden band adorns her ring finger. He wonders if he will ever have the courage to ask.

The lie together on a hammock until the sun starts to set. The afternoon feels lazy, the wind blowing just enough to rock them, a sliver of sunlight reaching them through a crack in the wood. Cassandra is curled next to him, book in hand, a bedspread he had helped her knit covering her from the waist down. She smiles, sighs, and he doesn’t mean to intrude, but his curiosity gets the better of him.

“After so many years, they are finally together,” she begins when he strains just a tad too much to steal a glance. “She is keeping a secret from him, but I still do not know what it is. Dorian believes she is dying. But I cannot believe Varric would be so cruel as to separate them – their love has endured so much!” Cassandra closes the book, turns it over in her hands, and he is glad there is no longer a risqué picture of Varric on the cover. After the success of the first, a tale of a Grey Warden and their long lost love, Varric had started a sequel, with Cassandra as his most loyal, most trusted reader, the one to whom he sent drafts and first editions, his quality control before the volumes were made available to the public. And she was an enthusiast: she cried, laughed, raged, came up with complex theories as to why the characters acted a certain way. Cassandra showed a deeper understanding of love than he could have imagined.

“As did ours,” is his reply, cheesy and a bit obvious, but it brings a smile to her lips nonetheless. “Maybe she is just afraid. Maybe their relationship is going down a path she did not expect,” his words are careful now, calculated, to make sure does not reveal more than intended. Cassandra shuffles beside him, almost causes him to fall off as she readjusts.

“You think she will propose?” the Seeker’s expression is anything but composed, voice shaky with excitement. “Maybe she will ask at camp, before they go to sleep? Some quiet forest, at night, with the moon as their only witness? He will say yes, of course. I can tell he has been waiting for this moment, but wanted to wait until she was ready. Do you think he will cry? That does sound like him,” she goes on to describe the perfect ceremony. The two are barefoot and wearing silky improbabilities, a crown made out of flowers on their heads. A Revered Mother has appeared out of thin air to officiate the wedding, and they say their vows amidst a flood of tears. They both doze off before she reaches the honeymoon.

Cassandra is gone by the time he wakes up, his only company the crickets and the book she had abandoned. The house is quiet when he enters, the table is set but she is nowhere to be found.  Something bubbles in the pot, and he wonders if it tastes half as good as it smells. The first time, the only time she had taken it upon herself to cook, they had to raid Skyhold’s larder so they wouldn’t go to bed hungry. She had been enraged her recipe hadn’t turned out right, unable to understand how something could taste so bad, and they had decided she would stay away from pots and pans.

If she had meant to surprise him, she had succeeded: as if preparing his favorite meal was not enough, she had lit scented candles that drew a path towards their bedroom, rose petals lining the wooden floor. He walked towards the door, as silent as his rogue training had taught him, hoping to catch his love in the middle of some absent-minded humming, blissful smiling or, Maker forgive him, _undressing_.

Instead he had found her hunched over _his_ bag, back turned, staring at something he couldn’t quite catch from where he was standing. Rowan checked his pockets in a hurry, looking for the blasted ring that _should_ have been inside a pretty velvet box, hidden where she couldn’t find it – on his person. His knuckles rap against the door, push it open with a start, and he is sure nothing will ever beat what he sees. Cassandra turns around quickly, hands where he couldn’t see them, likely hiding whatever it was she had snatched from his backpack. He should be at least angry, he realizes, angry that she had invaded his privacy, angry that she had ruined a surprise he had prepared, but all he feels is awe.

Cassandra Pentaghast stares at him in surprise, chest heaving and cheeks blushing, breasts threatening to spill out through the deep cleavage she wore. It mattered not he had seen her naked body on countless occasions, it mattered not that he knew every single curve – she looked divine under the moonlight. He had never imagined he would see his lover in a dress, much less one that left her so exposed, straps falling down her shoulders, a slit on the fabric that began dangerously close to her hip. The color was surprising, as well, a deep shade of blue, with silver details embroidered on her corset. His favorite color.

“What is the meaning of this?” she began as he opened his mouth to speak, flashing a piece of paper in front of his eyes. “It seems like a letter, but I can make no sense of it,” he can hear the confusion in her voice, but knows there is nothing special about it. Yet another one of his poems, unpolished, not particularly inspired, that he had kept near in hopes the fresh air of the mountains would make his words flow. “Maker, if this is your way of asking for my hand in marriage,” it never fails to amaze him, the way she breaches such a delicate subject as if it were nothing, and just like that the strength is gone from his fingers.

“I would never,” he says a little too harshly, and there could be no worse way to start things off. “I would never force you to marry me,” his voice softens, as does her pained expression. “Even if I dream of it, every moment of every day,” he takes her hand, kisses it, and knows this is it, the most important moment, and there could be no holding back. “All I have done, the ill-advised missions, the badly written poems, the ring” he brings out the box just then, laughing softly as he opens it for her to see. “All I have done, was because I love you, and I will wait for you, no matter how long it takes. This,” he points at the poem, now forgotten on the edge of the bed. “Is not my proposal. I will not breathe a word about it until you make it clear this is what you want”.

He rubs away the tears in his eyes, hopes his words are true, hopes she understands.

“But well, the truth is out now, isn’t it?” Rowan laughs nervously, his mouth gone dry. “I guess what I am trying to say,” he manages to let out, shaking his head ever so slightly in a desperate attempt to focus, “is that I understand if this isn’t the time. And that if you ever feel like marrying some noble fool and becoming a mother of three,” Cassandra’s expression is unreadable, stuck somewhere between dismay and fascination. _Bold in deed_ , Trevelyan reminds himself, giving her his best smile, “I certainly qualify for the position”.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe it's out! I can't believe I've finished it! I'd been trying to write this for _months_ , but could never finish it. There we go! Featuring everyone's favorite Seeker and my Inquisitor, Rowan, who isn't dealing well with the loss of his arm post-Trespasser.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope it gives you warm feelings like it gave me as I was writing. Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
